


In Your Winter Bonnet

by Liquid_Lyrium



Series: Advent [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Attempted Seduction, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Snow, Snowed In, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquid_Lyrium/pseuds/Liquid_Lyrium
Summary: Miraculously snowed in at the bookshop, which has miraculously lost its heat. This should be the perfect opportunity. Should.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Advent [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561270
Comments: 35
Kudos: 136





	In Your Winter Bonnet

“You know, snow wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t wet.” Crowley scowls at the snowdrift piled outside the window.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, breath ghosting the air. The bookshop is dark and gloomier than ever. The heater miraculously broken to discourage seekers of shelter who might then turn into purchasers of books. Not that anyone’s going to be out and about in this nearly waist-deep snow.

Crowley rests his forehead against the chilly glass morosely. “I can handle the cold,” he lies, hissing through tight teeth, fogging up the window. He’s got about five blankets, two jumpers, a zip up hoodie, and an overcoat wrapped around his angular, tree-bare frame. “‘S the part where it gets all _wet_ that’s the worst.”

“Yes, _dreadful_. Speaking of, did you need to change out of those shoes? You mentioned your socks were wet earlier.” Aziraphale sits beside him in the charming bay window that had not existed a week prior, the angel holds out a mug of scalding hot tea the serpent snatches up and cradles somewhere around his navel. “You can use my room upstairs, if you need to.”

“Mmf.” Crowley shrugs deeper into the recesses of his layers. Aziraphale shifts a bit, and Crowley instinctively shuffles an equal little bit to keep the same, respectable distance between them, missing the angel’s frown as he looks outside. “Can’t drive the Bentley either,” he presses a mournful palm against the glass, where his one true love is buried up to the bonnet in snow outside.

“I don’t mind if you’d like to stay over,” the angel’s voice is low, humming like the absent furnace.

“I had _plans_ , angel. Wanted to see if I can get the girl to drive on water, now that I’ve seen _this_ I dunno how my imagination is supposed to compete. Lord, it’s bloody cold in here.” The serpent lifts the mug in order to breathe in some heat.

“We could snuggle for warmth. I hear sharing body heat is an excellent survival tactic.” _Really_. _This should be working. Subtlety thy name is Aziraphale!_ The angel rolls his eyes and prays for strength.

“Figured I could swing by Cypress. Or Crete, or somewhere _warm_. Bring back some shells from a beach.” Crowley exhales against the glass and starts drawing rude shapes in the fog. (Though still not as rude or shocking as the goods displayed in the window of the angel’s neighbor.)

“Are you even listening to me Crowley?” Aziraphale sighs, pinching his brow. “We could be snowed in for some time, even _days_ , you absolute tit.”

“I knew I should have slept through winter,” Crowley mumbles against the rim of his mug.

“You’ll do no such thing, unless it is exclusively in my bed, you twat.” Aziraphale could smite the oblivious bastard. If he didn’t love him so much it split him all to pieces which Crowley’s love glued back together.

“Stupid invention, snow. Wasn’t rain enough? Why d’there have to be _two_ wet things that fall from the sky? Seems a bit redundant really. And _hail_ , nasty, stinging, pelting, damaging cars—you’d think that was one of ours, but no.”

The angel looks up at the ceiling, _“Someone_ give me strength—Crowley, you absolute buffoon, what does that bloody horseless carriage have that I don’t!? I’m trying to tell you I only have one bed!”

Crowley abruptly rips his gaze from the Bentley frozen in its double-parked glacial time-capsule, his voice dripping with scorn, _“‘Horseless carriage!?’_ What century do you think this _is_ angel?” Aziraphale slams his mug—which obligingly does not splash or spill—down on the empty shelf to his right.

 _“That’s_ what you heard? Out of all that?”

Crowley’s sneer is hovering in that space where he’s trying not to grin, “The Bentley is _not_ a mere ‘horseless carriage’ it’s a beautiful, cleverly engineered, amazing, human-hewn machine and what does it _matter_ if you only have one bed? You don’t slee-” it is a _little_ gratifying, at least, when Aziraphale sees one train (or horseless carriage) of thought crash with another inside Crowley’s brain. “H-hang on,” Crowley’s flushed bright red, and suddenly radiating hellish levels of heat, his voice weak and wilted. “S-since when did you have a bed?”

Aziraphale merely smirks, and reaches over to grab Crowley’s wrist, the fantastic, beautiful cleverly engineered, human-hewn machine there weighing more than all the demon’s bones put together. The angel turns it _just so_ to inspect the time. When he hears Crowley swallow it feels like coals roaring to life behind his cosmic, cosmetic navel.

“Since about… two minutes ago.” He drags his thumb across the skin of Crowley’s wrist bone.

Oh it’s far too enjoyable to watch Crowley squirm in place as he holds his gaze, though it does take a little courage.

“T-two minutes? Doesn’t seem like that’s very long,” Crowley’s voice cracks just a little.

“From where I’m sitting it felt like four thousand bloody years.” Aziraphale gets to his feet, plucking the demon’s mug from his hands, and starts heading towards the stairs.

He doesn’t have to look to know that Crowley is sitting there, stunned and completely discombobulated. Melting, thawing, freezing, and sublimating all at once. Then there’s the lovely little indignant noise that follows, the sound of ten pounds of blankets falling to the floor, and the mad scramble of limbs that never quite completely mastered the art of human ambulation scrape against the wooden floorboards.

“Hey, hang on a minute— _hey!_ Why only four thousand? Why not six? Aziraphale! Answer me! You absolute _bastard!_ Tell me!”

The angel just laughs, already at the top of the stairs and rounding the corner, as he hears the sound of snakeskin boots and sodden socks pound the staircase.

_You absolute nitwit. Of course it’s six._

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley is the worst and I love him. He just gets stuck in soliloquy mode sometimes. You know? [Here's the tumblr version too.](https://liquidlyrium.tumblr.com/post/189446190300/in-your-winter-bonnet)


End file.
